Up In Smoke

My relaxing Shabbat plans were turned to ashes.

Spending a year in Israel, every Shabbos was a scramble for plans. So I jumped when Raizel invited me to spend Shabbos with her at the home of the Grossbaum family, one of her father's lawyer colleagues. How could I have known what my benign plans would catalyze?

We were welcomed jovially into their home, a pretty apartment in an ivy-climbed building.

"My mother is in Florida," Mr. Grossbaum told us. "The two of you can stay in her apartment across the street, to afford you some privacy." What more could we ask for?

We walked across the narrow street to an impressive looking building. Their mother's apartment was modern looking and shiny as a new car. Formica countertops, the rage at the time, ceramic floors, wall to wall, cream colored carpet – the type that swallows up your feet when you take your shoes off. Wide American beds with thick mattresses and down comforters.

We relaxed a bit and then got dressed for Shabbos. It was my custom to light one candle in honor of Shabbos. Raizel quickly grabbed me a dish to light upon. I recited the blessing, and felt the tranquil hush of Shabbos, as dusk stealthily slid in under the week's clamor.

The meal next door was pleasant and the conversation inviting. Though being a guest at the home of a near stranger lends itself to awkwardness, the Grossbaums smoothed over the creases in conversation with delicious food, warmth, and an embracing Shabbos atmosphere. By the end of the meal we were thinking of those fluffy white comforters.

Ascending the steps to the Mr. Grossbaum's mother's apartment, we were assailed by an acrid smell.

"That's strange," said Raizel. "I don't remember the building having such a smell when we left."

She turned the key in the door. Something in the way my heart was drumming, my stomach turning and I knew even before the door creaked open to let a sliver of light slip through, that this was going to be one of those "If only" moments.

"Oh my gosh!" cried Raizel. "There was a fire!"

I followed behind her. The silky white countertop where my candle had been was now a large black hole. Bits of Formica melded around the ghoulish looking galaxy like scar tissue around a raw wound. The dish I had lit upon was – poof! – gone. No more.

"Oh my gosh," I echoed dumbly. "We are in such big trouble."

Raizel was running her hand over surfaces. She lifted her hands up in front of her face and she looked like a mime wearing black gloves.

"Soot," she said. It was everywhere. The "eat-your-feet-up" cream colored carpet was tinged with black like someone had emptied a mammoth pepper bottle all over it, the beige couches and the smooth bookshelves.

"Every book," said Raizel, dusting her finger down the spine of a book, holding out the black smudge for my inspection.

"Oh my gosh," I echoed dumbly. "We are in such big trouble."

We had to tell the Grossbaums. We had ruined their mother's apartment.

We walked down the steps, barely noticing each other's presence, each crushed under a mountain of regret. If only I wouldn't have decided to light that candle. If only I wouldn't have given her that plastic dish to light on. If only I would have made my own plans for Shabbos. If only they would have refused when I asked them if we could come. If only!

The door to the apartment building next door was locked. We screamed up in the direction of the geraniums in the windowsills, bobbing around like ominous demons.

"Grossbaum family!" we screamed. "We need to talk to you!" But nobody heard us. After half an hour, we returned to the apartment across the street.

The night that we had expected so much comfort was a fitful one. Each time I woke I thought it a dream. I ran to check and saw the counter yawning its black toothless grin and I knew that it was real. We were both dressed before sunrise. As soon as the first amber rays prodded through the night sky, we were at the Grossbaum's door.

The father answered, his eyes still full with sleep, a robe hastily thrown about him.

"Yes," he asked expectantly.

"We are so sorry," Raizel explained, "We burnt your mother's apartment. We lit candles. There was a fire."

We were like nightmare guests.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked.

"Everyone is fine," I replied. "Except for the counter. And the apartment. Please come and see."

He smiled.

"As long as everyone is okay, I see no need to go and investigate. Why don't we all try to get a bit more sleep and we'll talk about it later."

But we didn't talk about it later. At lunch that afternoon, there were so many other topics of conversation that interested the Grossbaums more. While the catastrophe prowled our minds, they were focused on infusing their Shabbos table with meaning and conviviality.

After lunch we invited them to assess the damage.

"Not now," said Mr. Grossbaum. "It's Shabbos afternoon, time to rest up and learn. I'll look some other time."

By the third meal, incredibly, thoughts of the fire were beginning to recede – even in our own minds. The Grossbaums seemed intently focused on providing a most hospitable Shabbos.

When Shabbos ended, we had to cajole them to come over and see what had happened. Mr. Grossbaum looked around and noted the hole, the soot, and the carpet.

"Just needs a little fixing up," he said, smiling. "Don't worry about it." Then he offered to drive us back to school so that we wouldn't have to trouble ourselves with a bus.

We couldn't believe that we had gotten off so easily. We insisted on paying for the damage. After repeated attempts throughout the week, the Grossbaums finally agreed to accept reparations, as they had already started repairs before their mother's arrival.

They asked for the grand total of 20 dollars to cover their losses.

Today we lend our own apartment out to other families whenever we vacate. Sometimes we return to a note of thanks, or a small gift. But I don't expect anything. I feel I am paying back a debt.

If only I wouldn't have gone to the Grossbaums for Shabbos, I would never have started a fire in their mother's apartment.

If only I wouldn't have gone to the Grossbaums for Shabbos, I would never have learned the true meaning of hospitality.

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About the Author

Yael Mermelstein M.S. is the author of thousands of magazine articles and has seven published books. Her stories have also been published in textbooks and have been approved by the Israeli Ministry of Education for inclusion in the English matriculation exams.Her latest book, Dual Secrets, has recently been released by Artscroll/Mesorah. She lives in Israel with her family.

Visitor Comments: 8

(8)
dianne,
January 18, 2013 2:15 PM

hospitality from the heart

A FINE STORY.ENJOYED VERY MUCH

(7)
Katherine,
April 2, 2008 10:55 PM

Would you do that?

Amazing story but the piece I find interesting is that comments below. They have their hint of sarcasm of "if only that would happen". Do we not read the same torah that shows us examples of this and yet we find it so hard to believe? Are we cynical and sceptical of such a thing happening in Israel where it most likely would happen? Am I getting through to anyone?Think positive and good stuff happens...even to you!

(6)
Anonymous,
June 20, 2007 1:15 PM

Mi k'amcha Yisrael....

If only you weren't you, you might have missed the lesson altogether. Yasher Koach! An inspiring reminder.

(5)
Anny Matara,
June 20, 2007 10:39 AM

IT SOUNDS LIKE PART OF 1001 NIGHTS STORY

GENEROSITY IS SUCH A RARE AND WONDERFUL THING BUT, I MUST ADMIT, IT DOES SOUND LIKE A SHABBOTH MIRACLE. BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO CAN AND WILLINGLY GIVE.

(4)
Yosef Kalish,
June 18, 2007 9:58 PM

if only...

If only they weren't one in a millionOr perhapsIf only more families like this family are given more personal and popular attentionif only...

(3)
Marni Rosen,
June 18, 2007 11:34 AM

Amazing

It was amazing that the Grossbaums were so understanding about the fire damage. The situation could have been chas veshalom even worse. One should never light Shabbos candles and leave them burning unattended!

(2)
sarah shapiro,
June 17, 2007 2:18 PM

wow, great story

.

(1)
Lydia Shelley,
June 17, 2007 11:18 AM

Beautiful!

So wonderful how catastrophes can turn into the most beautiful lessons. Thank you for sharing with us.

I'm told that it's a mitzvah to become intoxicated on Purim. This puzzles me, because to my understanding, it is not considered a good thing to become intoxicated, period.

One of the characteristics of the at-risk youth is their use of drugs, including alcohol. In my experience, getting drunk doesn't reveal secrets. It makes people act stupid and irresponsible, doing things they would never do if they were sober. Also, I know a lot about the horrible health effects of abusing alcohol, because I work at a research center that focuses on addiction and substance abuse.

Also, I am an alcoholic, which means that if I drink, very bad things happen. I have not had a drink in 22 years, and I have no intention of starting now. Surely there must be instances where a person is excused from the obligation to drink. I don't see how Judaism could ever promote the idea of getting drunk. It just doesn't seem right.

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

Putting aside for a moment all the spiritual and philosophical reasons for getting drunk on Purim, this remains an issue of common sense. Of course, teenagers should be warned of the dangers of acute alcohol ingestion. Of course, nobody should drink and drive. Of course, nobody should become so drunk to the point of negligence in performing mitzvot. And of course, a recovering alcoholic should not partake of alcohol on Purim.

Indeed, the Code of Jewish Law explicitly says that if one suspects the drinking may affect him negatively, then he should NOT drink.

Getting drunk on Purim is actually one of the most difficult mitzvot to do correctly. A person should only drink if it will lead to positive spiritual results - e.g. under the loosening affect of the alcohol, greater awareness will surface of the love for God and Torah found deep in the heart. (Perhaps if we were on a higher spiritual level, we wouldn't need to get drunk!)

Yet the Talmud still speaks of an obligation on Purim of "not knowing the difference between Blessed is Mordechai and Cursed is Haman." How then should a person who doesn't drink get the point of “not knowing”? Simple - just go to sleep! (Rama - OC 695:2)

All this applies to individuals. But the question remains - does drinking on Purim adversely affect the collective social health of the Jewish community?

The aversion to alcoholism is engrained into Jewish consciousness from a number of Biblical and Talmudic sources. There are the rebuking words of prophets - Isaiah 28:1, Hosea 3:1 with Rashi, and Amos 6:6, and the Zohar says that "The wicked stray after wine" (Midrash Ne'alam Parshat Vayera).

It is well known that the rate of alcoholism among Jews has historically been very low. Numerous medical, psychological and sociological studies have confirmed this. The connection between Judaism and sobriety is so evident, that the following conversation is reported by Lawrence Kelemen in "Permission to Receive":

When Dr. Mark Keller, editor of the Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol, commented that "practically all Jews do drink, and yet all the world knows that Jews hardly ever become alcoholics," his colleague, Dr. Howard Haggard, director of Yale's Laboratory of Applied Physiology, jokingly proposed converting alcoholics to the Jewish religion in order to immerse them in a culture with healthy attitudes toward drinking!

Perhaps we could suggest that it is precisely because of the use of alcohol in traditional ceremonies (Kiddush, Bris, Purim, etc.), that Jews experience such low rates of alcoholism. This ceremonial usage may actually act like an inoculation - i.e. injecting a safe amount that keeps the disease away.

Of course, as we said earlier, all this needs to be monitored with good common sense. Yet in my personal experience - having been in the company of Torah scholars who were totally drunk on Purim - they acted with extreme gentleness and joy. Amid the Jewish songs and beautiful words of Torah, every year the event is, for me, very special.

Adar 12 marks the dedication of Herod's renovations on the second Holy Temple in Jerusalem in 11 BCE. Herod was king of Judea in the first century BCE who constructed grand projects like the fortresses at Masada and Herodium, the city of Caesarea, and fortifications around the old city of Jerusalem. The most ambitious of Herod's projects was the re-building of the Temple, which was in disrepair after standing over 300 years. Herod's renovations included a huge man-made platform that remains today the largest man-made platform in the world. It took 10,000 men 10 years just to build the retaining walls around the Temple Mount; the Western Wall that we know today is part of that retaining wall. The Temple itself was a phenomenal site, covered in gold and marble. As the Talmud says, "He who has not seen Herod's building, has never in his life seen a truly grand building."

Some people gauge the value of themselves by what they own. But in reality, the entire concept of ownership of possessions is based on an illusion. When you obtain a material object, it does not become part of you. Ownership is merely your right to use specific objects whenever you wish.

How unfortunate is the person who has an ambition to cleave to something impossible to cleave to! Such a person will not obtain what he desires and will experience suffering.

Fortunate is the person whose ambition it is to acquire personal growth that is independent of external factors. Such a person will lead a happy and rewarding life.

With exercising patience you could have saved yourself 400 zuzim (Berachos 20a).

This Talmudic proverb arose from a case where someone was fined 400 zuzim because he acted in undue haste and insulted some one.

I was once pulling into a parking lot. Since I was a bit late for an important appointment, I was terribly annoyed that the lead car in the procession was creeping at a snail's pace. The driver immediately in front of me was showing his impatience by sounding his horn. In my aggravation, I wanted to join him, but I saw no real purpose in adding to the cacophony.

When the lead driver finally pulled into a parking space, I saw a wheelchair symbol on his rear license plate. He was handicapped and was obviously in need of the nearest parking space. I felt bad that I had harbored such hostile feelings about him, but was gratified that I had not sounded my horn, because then I would really have felt guilty for my lack of consideration.

This incident has helped me to delay my reactions to other frustrating situations until I have more time to evaluate all the circumstances. My motives do not stem from lofty principles, but from my desire to avoid having to feel guilt and remorse for having been foolish or inconsiderate.

Today I shall...

try to withhold impulsive reaction, bearing in mind that a hasty act performed without full knowledge of all the circumstances may cause me much distress.

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